


Ricasso

by CharleyFoxtrot



Category: Asrellion, Mornnovin, The Way of the Falling Star
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Character Death, F/F, Gen, Lesbians, New Fandom, Romance, Sad gays, Saving the World, Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 06:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18424761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot
Summary: Híaiollova Aqevréora often though that, after so much frustrated searching for her niche in society, earning her mastery would be the most wonderful, pride-filled moment of her life.She was wrong.A story of love, loss, joy, grief, and autistic elves.





	Ricasso

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VulcanElf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulcanElf/gifts).



> THIS IS A NEW FANDOM. I APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING. [MORNNOVIN](https://alyssabethancourt.com/2019/04/09/mornnovin-is-live-today/) IS JUST SO _GOOD_.

** Ricasso **

_They say we are what we are, but we don’t have to be_  
_I’m bad behavior, but I do it in the best way_  
_I’ll be the watcher of the eternal flame_  
_I’ll be the guard dog of all your fever dreams_  
_I am the sand in the bottom half of the hourglass_  
_I try to picture me without you, but I can’t_

 _Cuz we could be immortals, immortals_  
_Just not for long, for long_  
_And live with me forever, now_  
_You pull the blackout curtains down_  
_Just not for long, for long_  
_We could be immortals_  
_Immortals_

\-- Fall Out Boy, “Immortals”

Híaiollova Aqevréora often though that, after so much frustrated searching for her niche in society, earning her mastery would be the most wonderful, pride-filled moment of her life.

She was wrong.

Hailla spent many years (from the moment she attained adulthood to the tender age of 405) trying and _failing_ at nearly everything she did.

In the deepest part of her mind, she knew that calling it a _failure_ wasn't quite right. She was adept enough at most things. She had the gift of the Art, even if it gave her a headache and produced small results. When she played the _vanòsso_ , she put her heart and soul into it, and she produced adequate results; could move people to feel actual emotion... when she played the work of another. Composition, she had no head for, and in her mind, that was a _failure_.

Her mother, an accomplished player of the _gíso_ in her own right, fretted after her in those days after Hailla quit. She put her _vanòsso_ in storage and spent days in her rooms, pondering life. She ate the food her mother provided her, knowing that not doing so would convince haojí that she was immersed in a deep depression, but Hailla was simply... _thinking_.

After some consideration, she'd began working with those who helped build and repair domiciles – not the mages, but the craftsmen who created the base materials and assembled it into something resembling a house until the mages could shore it up. It was something to keep her busy, and she learned a _lot_ – it was, she figured, good to know the basics of how to make a home, as she'd have to get one of her own some day. It was _work_ , and though mother still fretted after her, Hailla was content, if not entirely happy.

It wasn't until her crew was sent to repair the home of _Ítaja_ Roméa, renowned swordsmith, that she found her true calling.

There was a beam; unusual in its own right _anywhere_ in Efrondel, as the city was made almost entirely of crystal. It was a metal beam, and it had given way directly in the middle of the itaja's workspace – where he conducted his research and practiced his craft. Before the mages came in to deal with shaping the crystal that would re-encase the cave-in, she spotted the problem and knew how to prevent it in the future.

With but a glance, Hailla _knew_ what had caused the cave-in. It was _faulty metal_. She spotted it near-immediately and reported it out to her supervisor, knowing intrinsically that the person who had created this dwelling had mixed the metals together incorrectly; they wanted steel, and they got it, but they'd put far too much carbon and not nearly enough iron into the mix. It wasn’t the first time she’d followed her instincts, but it was by far the most important one.

“I don’t know who made this for you,” she informed Roméa, “But whatever you traded for it, you should ask for it back. This is shoddy craftsmanship at best; whoever did this should be ashamed of themselves.” It was the first time she’d ever been so bold as to do something like _tell a master of metallurgy about his own craft_. She was almost horrified with herself, but she was more horrified that the itaja could have been killed or gravely injured by the cave-in.

For the rest of the project, he took a keen interest in her, which made her antsy. The itaja was old, considerably older than herself, and single. She worried if she would have to inform him of her exclusive attraction to women. 

Finally, on the last day, he pulled her aside.

“You have a fine mind for metal,” he informed her. She shrugged; it was obvious to her, as she'd been working in housing construction for well over sixty years. This meant dealing with an awful lot of metal. That most of it was smelted down to create crystal was almost an afterthought.

“I've spoken with your current master,” he informed her, and she wanted to inform him right back that she wasn't an apprentice, had never bothered to apprentice to anyone, as she was a failure at everything she tried. She was merely help. It was something to do. Still, she kept her mouth shut and instead raised a single eyebrow.

“I wish to train you in the art of metallurgy, of creating things with metal,” he continued. “If you wish it, after a trial period, I will offer you an apprenticeship. I don't make the offer lightly,” he concluded.

Hailla was stunned. She'd been searching; so many of her age-group (out of the few there already were) had found their area of expertise before they even reached adulthood. In fact, several of them had already embarked on a second career, having mostly-mastered their first.

“I've yet to have found my calling, _yí_ ,” she said. Honesty was important to Hailla.

“Then why not try?” Roméa replied. “You spotted the problem right away, and you knew how to fix it. That seems like a calling to _me_. And if you are not as good as I think you are, you are welcome to return to your construction crew, having learned the basics from one of the top masters in Evlédíen.”

Hailla though this was a rational, practical idea, and she realized later that Roméa had chosen his words carefully. From the moment he met her, he knew _exactly_ how to deal with her, for Hailla was nothing if not pragmatic.

And so Hailla began lessons in metallurgy; ten years later when she officially apprenticed, she began learning sword-making. There were, of course, _other_ projects than swords. But Roméa, though he could produce other things, specialized in items for battle, and thus so did Hailla.

Her first attempts were laughable and she was so _very_ tempted to quit. Roméa merely chastised her for her impatience and instructed her to try again, as many times as she could, to get it right. After all, great swordsmith that he was, was skilled enough in the Art that he could disassemble the components of her failed attempts back into the base materials that they were. Iron, bronze, and carbon were no issue, and she should not take a first failure as _overall_ failure.

It was as if someone had cast a thrall on her. For the first time in her life, she saw that a failure was not necessarily the end of the world, not necessarily an indicator at how poorly she was doing by her chosen skill, and she mourned the careers she could have had – in the Art, in music, even construction.

But Híaiollova Aqevréora was a realist, and she chose to move on. And move she did, throwing herself into her chosen art and making finer-quality swords as time went on. Her apprenticeship lasted a mere 50 years, unusual in its own right, until she progressed to journeyman. As a journeyman, she began _making_ swords and shields that were up-to-par for the warrior apprentices to use in training. She also had the tiresome duty of repairing the equipment of said apprentices, oft chastising them for misuse of their equipment. The apprentices _did_ like to bash things together.

She'd found her calling. Hailla enjoyed her work, enjoyed folding steel, enjoyed making it, enjoyed other metals that she could create, with the small bit of the Art she had within her and a little bit of chemistry. She even enjoyed repairing swords that had shattered, or shields that had broken. She looked to the day that she would herself be called Ítaja – _Master_.

Finally, after three decades of making repairs and slowly improving in her craft, Ítaja Roméa – himself busy with a project, allegedly for the _Míyahídéna_ – called her to him. It was a _Thíasyu_ , near the end of the work week, just after the beginning of the year. Hailla would forever remember the moment – birds were chirping from outside, and the air, as she'd walked into the very workspace she'd helped rebuild, had been brisk with a hint of warmth. Spring was _here_ , and Hailla looked forward to Efrondel in all of its glory, when the temperature would warm ever-so-slightly and the flowers that were carefully curated in the gardens surrounding the palace would bloom.

“You have thrown yourself into your art,” he said, bringing Hialla back to the room instead of daydreaming about the flowers outside.

Her master was standing over the main forge, considering many different materials and appearing to only half-notice Hailla. “It has been less than a century, less time than most would apprentice, let alone journeyman. And yet I find myself with a student who has learned all that I can teach her.”

Hailla did not let the flattery go to her head, but she was pleased that her master found her worthy of such praise.

“It is time for you to begin a final project for your mastery,” Roméa continued.

Hailla stared at the back of his head, stunned. It was not unlike him to give these statements to her, ones that could be emotional, while pretending to be engrossed in something else. Hailla suspected that it was his way of avoiding a scene, but there was a strong possibility that he simply enjoyed shocking her. While generally a solemn man, Roméa had a _wickedly_ sharp sense of humor when he chose to deply it.

“Your time with me has been effectively spent; I do not think I have had such a fine student in hundreds of years, possibly a millenia. You have outdone yourself, Hailla.” He finally turned toward her, a smile on his face. “There are many journeymen fighters, awaiting their final sword. One will be selected and sent to you, and the two of you will collaborate. When you are finished and the sword is complete, I will inspect it, and the fighter will name it. If it holds up to my standards, and those of your assigned journeyman, you will graduate from study with me.”

She continued staring, even though it was extremely rude. “Are you sure?” she asked, trembling in place slightly. “I have been with you so little, and learned so much. There must be more to learn.” She felt unsure of herself, as if her adult life had finally arrived, and she was ever-so-slightly terrified of it.

As a master, she would be expected to take on her own business, to have her own home and forge. Her master, as well as her family, would bequeath her what she needed to accomplish these things, but she hadn't been expecting to do this for at _least_ another forty years; she hadn't begun to plan, let alone advertise herself. She didn't know that she'd feel comfortable competing for business against her master.

“And I myself took three centuries to arrive at where you stand now,” Roméa acknowledged, interrupting her train of thought. “I have little doubt in my mind that someday you will surpass me, Híaiollova.” The use of her formal name surprised her; Roméa hadn't used it in nearly half a century. Hailla thought perhaps he'd forgotten it. “Not for a while yet, but I assure you: I've trained many a swordsmith, and you are ready.”

He then dismissed her, giving her the rest of the week off to prepare. On _Morayu_ she would meet the warrior she would design a sword for – no, _collaborate_ on a sword with. That was as important as anything else, and she knew this was a test. She had to be able to deliver what a patron wanted while maintaining her own personal style and imparting the same strength she would in something she herself had designed. She'd done it before, of course, but never for a _sword_. Never for something that had to withstand repeated attack, lest it be shattered into pieces.

Until then, she had four days to sit and do nothing. She was not one who enjoyed being idle, and after sitting in her rooms for several hours, she stealthily retrieved her vanòsso from its space in storage. It took a while; the harp was rather large and cumbersome, and she had to enlist the help of a wheeled dolly to get it to her rooms, which thankfully, were on the ground floor.

After cleaning it off – it hadn't seen use in centuries – and oiling it, she tuned the beast. The strings were fine steel and sang almost as well as they had the day she'd put it away. Part of her apprenticeship had involved learning how to extrude wire, some of which had been used by instrument-makers, and her time as a journeyman had taught her how to make parts of other instruments as well. She appreciated the wires for what they were for a moment before she began plucking them in earnest.

For the first time in centuries, the house of Aqevréora sang joyous with the sound of the vanòsso – for at long last, Hailla knew true joy, and turned it into song.

*** * * * ***

Her mastery project was, it seemed, not to be as joyous. Víelle, the woman who had been selected to work with her, was stoic, a woman of few words. Getting input from a patron had never been more difficult. She chose her words carefully, making sure that each would be correctly-interpreted with the least amount of actual communication.

Finally, Hailla was able to ascertain that Víelle wanted something _quick_. She'd been a dancer prior to her training under Captain Lanoralas Galvan, and she was light on her feet. Hailla thought on this for several days, making notes and doodling, before she finally asked Víelle if she could see her fight. Knowing what moves Víelle was likely to make in battle was important if Hailla was to make her a sword that was to last a millenia.

Hailla had received, as part of her time as a journeyman, some instruction in the art of battle, as the majority of her training had been in swordsmithing. She wasn't exactly _bad_ at it, but it was violent and required a great deal of energy – energy she would rather use to learn new metallurgy techniques or theories of balance. Still, as an important part of her craft, she was able to ascertain if someone was good at fighting, and where their strengths and weaknesses lay.

Seeing Víelle and Captain Galvan spar was _breathtaking_. Later, Hailla thought that might have been where she fell in love with the other woman. Víelle's dark skin contrasted against Captain Galvan' paler coloring, which helped considerably as Hailla would have otherwise had problems figuring one from the other in the blur of their battle.

Captain Galvan was not quite as light on his feet as Víelle; he favored a swift fight over than a protracted one, although Hailla thought that he could prolong any battle should he desire. He wasn't heavy-handed, it was just that Víelle danced around him, almost laughingly, quick and light; watching her was like watching Méyora, the First Dancer. Through Víelle, Hailla thought she might have seen the face of Vaian himself.

The spar came to a draw, which Hailla believed either a massive coincidence, or Captain Galvan going easy on Vielle. After all, she was only just about to graduate from her training. The Captain of the Guard could probably destroy her, should he desire.

But now she had an idea. She didn't know if her master would approve, but Víelle was special, and she deserved something _unique_.

Hailla was going to make an entirely new metal. Just for Víelle.

*** * * * ***

When she proposed the idea to Víelle, the other woman was less than pleased.

“An untested new element?” she said, glowering. “What shall I name it, then? _Qíjano_?”

Hailla resisted the urge to slap the warrior at the insult. “I will experiment and test it before I ever try to fold a sword out of it,” she said. A frown graced her features. “I would never give you an untested sword. I would never send you into battle without something that will do well by you.”

Víelle didn't seem convinced, but was impressed with the physical design that Hailla had in mind.

“If it doesn't work out, if within a season I cannot produce it, I will make this sword out of steel,” Hailla said. It was a perfectly good design for Víelle; slim and curving, the tang extending nearly the full length of the hilt, elegant and sturdy crossguards, and designed to be lightweight and strong.

“A season?” Víelle asked, a dark, elegant eyebrow arching as she crossed her arms. “Only a season? The traditional period for making a new sword is a year, is it not, Híaiollova?

Hailla's full name came out of Víelle's mouth like liquid honey, and she resisted the urge to shudder. It would not do for Hailla to be caught lusting after a patron, especially not one she was attempting to attain her mastery by.

“It would take me the remaining eight months to produce the sword,” Hailla said. 

Víelle's other eyebrow shot up, joining the first in her shock. “You plan to forge, fold, and hilt a master-level blade in eight months?” she asked.

Hailla found herself smiling. “I could do it in less time, should it be required. However, I prefer slow and steady; I want to make it _perfect_.”

She hadn't meant it as an innuendo, but Víelle clearly took it as one. The other woman eyed her up and down before shrugging.

“So long as I get my sword,” Víelle said. She turned and walked away from Hailla, leaving her standing alone.

*** * * * ***

Hailla, having completed her studies, had plenty of free time to work on her mastery project. Steel alloys were no new thing to Evlédíen, but she figured she'd better start there anyway.

It took a month to realize that she was going in the wrong direction by trying to fuze steel and bronze together; the two were incompatible for swordmaking. Disappointed, she began researching in earnest. She only had another month or so.

Instead, she began looking at the chemical structure of steel itself. Good carbon steel, which she usually worked with for swords, had specific structures. There had to be a way to make it more flexible without sacrificing sturdiness. The answer, she was convinced, lay in the science and Art of steelmaking.

Once she realized the correct direction, it was only a short time before she realized what she needed to do. Titanium (so rarely used, and how very _scarce_ it was), added in small amounts during the carbonizing process, could create a new kind of steel – one that might be more flexible and yet resistant to breakage and corrosion.

That very night she created the prototype metal. The next day, she forged a blade as unlike the one she would eventually fold for Víelle as was possible, and the next week was spent subjecting it to a myriad of stress-tests.

She was using the student forge, the one she'd been using as an apprentice and then journeyman for Roméa. It wasn't as nice or fancy as Roméa's, but it was a good, solid setup, and it would do for her purposes. From across the room, she could see Roméa looking at her ponderously, but he didn't question her.

Finally, she created a hilt for the sword and begged the Captain of the Guard to test it on the field.

He examined it; Captain Galvan had a streak of humor in him that everyone was aware of, but he took his duties as Captain seriously, and he'd never willingly use a faulty weapon.

Finally he looked at her, frowning. “What is this?” he asked. “Surely this isn't to be _Víelle's_ sword.” Hailla stood in place for so long that Captain Galvan eventually repeated his question. But it took her that long to decide whether to trust Captain Galvan with this information.

“I am experimenting with a new alloy,” she admitted. “It has passed all of my tests, but I am a mere novice at battle and fighting. I wish to see if it would hold up to a real fight.”

She'd made the blade with Captain Galvan in mind, in fact, and was disappointed that he might not agree to test it. After all, he must have precious little free time, and spending it testing a journeyman's effort was obviously beneath him.

“A new alloy?” he asked, both eyebrows raising. He swung the sword in his hand, experimentally; Hailla knew it to be deceptively lightweight, for the inclusion of titanium had resulted in an alloy that required much less surface area to be effective.

Or so she hoped.

“How much do you know of forging?” she asked him, instead of answering his question. She hoped it wasn't too bold of her.

“Not enough to turn to smithing,” he replied. He was testing the grip of the sword, tossing it from hand to hand. “But the basics, I am well aware of.”

“What of _creating steel_?” she pressed.

“I know that you combine carbon and iron at a certain point and it becomes steel,” Captain Galvan said. He was now leaning on the sword, and Hailla would have winced had she not known the capabilities of her new metal.

“I did exactly that,” she said. “And as I was adding carbon, I was also adding the tiniest bit of titanium.”

Captain Galvan blinked. “ _Titanium_? I've seen a few swords made with titanium. Good metal, but not as durable in fighting. More for decoration than actual battle.”

She nodded. “I believe the chemical structure I created when combining the three to be slightly superior to good carbon steel. The amount I added was small; microscopic, almost. And yet there is an obvious change.”

“Indeed,” Captain Galvan said, looking down at the sword contemplatively. He looked at her. “Tomorrow. I should be free in the afternoon. I will call on my best student and put your sword to the very edge of its limits. The sparring spell should protect both of us if your sword shatters.”

Hailla nodded, her knees nearly giving out in relief.

“I have one condition,” the captain continued. Hailla stared at him, wary.

“Your condition, yí?” she asked, calmly, her voice betraying none of her concern.

“Should this new metal pass muster, I would like to commission you,” he said, eyes glinting mischievously. “After, of course, you obtain your mastery. A pair of daggers, made of this new metal.”

“Of course,” she said, relief flowing through her again. And then, boldly, she added, “I call it Víellíum.”

Captain Galvan raised his eyebrow again, but merely bid her a good day. The two separated, and Hailla went home and played her vanòsso until it was time to leave for the practice ring the next day.

It was only later that it came to her: she had been composing.

*** * * * ***

It was a gorgeous afternoon, and Hailla was excited. She was unsurprised to discover, as she walked towards the practice green, that Víelle was there as well. The darker woman was standing at attention, but she relaxed as Hailla approached.

“The Captain told me about this new alloy that you think is better than perfectly good steel,” Víelle said. She spoke calmly, as if the invention of a new metal was an everyday occurrence.

Hailla nodded and put a bracing smile on her face. “I hope it passes muster,” she said. “I've been testing it for a week; I even bounced on it to see if it would break under my weight.”

Víelle let her eyes travel down Hailla's slight frame. “You should have had your master test it,” she said, drawling. “I doubt your weight is enough to make even baked clay shatter.”

Hailla flushed, but the two of them were distracted as Captain Galvan walked out with –

His best student, who just happened to be the Míyahídéna herself _._

Loralíenasa Níelor Raia was intimidating to look at at the best of times; she was their future queen, impeccable in her bearing, and _beautiful_. Hailla had once thought herself in love with the future queen, for a few brief weeks, before recognizing it as a passing fancy. She'd never _known_ the woman, how could she be in love?

Besides, she wasn't even of-age yet. It was a perversion.

Hailla took in the awe-inspiring visage of the Míyahídéna and then glanced at Víelle. It was an unseasonably warm day in the valley, and sweat shown on the darker woman's skin, tiny hints of it around her hairline and above her lip.

Víelle was _far_ more beautiful than the Míyahídéna.

She caught the other woman looking back at her, and Hailla flushed and turned toward the Captain and his prized student.

If Captain Galvan had caught the byplay between the smith and the fighter, he didn't let on. Instead, he waved toward them and then immediately took up a fighting stance, Hailla's sword in his hand.

Loralíenasa did the same, speaking the words of the sparring-spell that would protect them from injury. It was but a moment before the two sprang into action.

Loralíenasa had a student's sword – finely made though it was, it was not the sword she would eventually be gifted by Roméa. But it would do for this.

With a crash, the two swords met, singing loudly to all that would hear. The sound drew the attention of nearby members of the Guard, who gathered at the edge of the square, watching as the Míyahídéna and the Captain parried with each other, testing each other as well as the new sword. Hailla now knew without a doubt that Captain Galvan had let Víelle draw with him; he was far superior to her, and even Hailla had to admit it.

For thirty minutes they sparred, tracing fake injuries on each other and letting their swords crash numerous times, testing the mettle (and metal) of the sword, as well as themselves. Finally, the Míyahídéna got a lucky strike in, slashing low and catching Captain Galvan with her sword, effectively taking out both of his legs in one go. The student sword crashed heavily into the one Hailla had created, which he had, in a desperate attempt to block the blow, planted into the ground – too far to the right, it would seem.

A dull groan issued from Hailla's sword, but not a crack or a chip seemed to be in evidence. The small crowd made some impressed noises and dispersed; the Míyahídéna took her leave of them as well, as she apparently had some function she was to attend to that evening. This was said with a trace of mockery before she departed.

“I'd say you did yourself proud, journeywoman,” Captain Galvan said, inspecting the blade. Up close, Hailla could see that the alloy had, in fact, not chipped or worn down at all, and was still as sharp as it had been when she forged it last week. Running a finger down the edge now that the sparring-spell had been dispersed, she felt it nick her finger and slice cleanly through the skin. Sharp enough that a physician could use it. She smiled.

“I thank you, yí,” she said. He respectfully handed the sword back, hilt-first, and if she hadn't considered it a practice effort, she'd have gifted it to him right then and there. As it was, she swore she wouldn't take a favor or anything of the kind from him in exchange for the daggers.

As he left the square, she turned to Víelle. “Shall we get to work then?”

Víelle laughed outright. “Indeed, journeywoman. Let us not hinder your mastery, nor mine.”

*** * * * ***

The next nine months were a trial, and yet some of the most enjoyable of Hailla's life. Most work-days she spent fine-tuning her new metal and finalizing designs, and the afternoons were spent with Víelle. The two women took a drawing and turned it into something amazing, unheard of even. Something perfect for Hailla's dark-skinned beauty of a warrior.

On days like today, when they were exchanging ideas from the comfort of Hailla's own rooms, adding notations to the parchment where the drawing of the sword was and refining the whole concept, Hailla liked to compare their skin. Her own family had blessed her with olive skin – not the pale white of the Míyahídéna, but not near-black like Víelle's. Hailla thought it was a good contrast.

“You must be joking, Híaiollova,” Víelle was saying. She made a gesture with the arm Hailla had just been comparing her own to, breaking Hailla's concentration.

“I am _not_ ,” Hailla replied. “The cross-guard is too short, will offer no protection that way. With the new material, adding an inch on either side will not hinder you in the slightest. And please,” and she placed her hand on Víelle's arm, lowering it back to the bed. “Call me Hailla. It seems over-formal for the two of us to be referring to each other by our full names. We've been working together for _months_.”

“Hailla,” Víelle said. From her mouth, the syllables sounded awe-inspiring, as if Hailla herself was something she wasn't. Then the other woman ducked her head. “I simply go by Víelle. My name is short enough.”

“I'm _so_ disappointed I won't get to call you Ví,” Hailla said, only half-joking. Such an obvious shorthand would be relegated to family or perhaps a lover.

Víelle's lips twitched. Hailla's hand was still on her arm. “You can if you wish,” she said, quietly. And Hailla didn't expect it, but then Víelle leaned toward her and brushed her lips against Hailla's own.

The two of them stayed like that, frozen for what was probably only a few seconds. Hailla closed her eyes and sighed, slightly, pressing a little harder, and when Víelle realized that she wasn't going to be pushed away, she let it turn into an actual kiss.

From then on they were together. Neither Captain Galvan nor Roméa seemed particularly surprised.

*** * * * ***

Hailla finished Víelle's sword just after Festival, as the final harvests were coming in and winter was about to set in. She'd spent most of Festival indoors, working on it feverishly; Víelle had convinced her to come out at least twice, although the two of them defied expectations by sticking together and enjoying the revelry as a pair, masks on but obvious in identity. Still, she wanted to finish ahead of schedule, as Captain Galvan had made a comment that, paraphrased, made it obvious that the only reason Víelle had not been promoted to a full fighter was her lack of her own sword.

Because this had all started on a Thíasyu _,_ and Hailla was something of a sentimentalist despite her pragmatism, she presented the new sword to Víelle on a Thíasyu. The very last before winter set in.

It was honestly breathtaking. Hailla wasn't a particularly prideful person, but she'd created _an entirely new metal_ just for Víelle, and painstakingly crafted it, even engaging the services of the finest woodworker in the Valley to help with the hilt. She’d called in a favor from a mage friend of hers to wrap the wooden hilt around the tang. The sword looked to be crafted of silver, even though both of them knew it wasn't so fragile as that. Delicate etching along the ricasso had been done by Hailla herself, using what of the Art she had in her, and she'd poured her love for Víelle into every inch of the process. The sheath she'd had made custom as well, working with a leatherworker directly to create the sword's protection. It wasn't necessarily expected of her to provide a sheath with the sword, but it felt important to Hailla, and so she did.

As Víelle unbound the plain hide that Hailla had elected to wrap the sword and sheath in, Hailla held her breath.

Roméa had already inspected the blade and found it to be of exceptional quality. He'd quizzed her on the process of her new metal, didn't blink once at her name for it, and asked for the recipe. That her master had asked _her_ to provide _him_ with a recipe of her own design was breathtaking in its own right. As far as he was concerned, she was already itaja _._

But this was the final test. Her master was at his own forge, playing with the new metal – he was considering making Míyahídéna's the sword out of it, although Hailla wasn't sure that would happen – but she knew him and knew that at least half of his attention was on the two of them.

A patron happy with a product of exceptional quality would be the final seal on her mastery. Not all masters required this, but hers _did_ , and if Víelle didn't like the sword, it was back to the proverbial drawing-board, as a journeyman.

“Oh, Hailla,” Vielle said, caressing the blade gently. “She's _beautiful_.”

“ _She_?” Hailla said, raising an eyebrow.

“Could she be but anything else?” Víelle replied. “Look at her.” The fighter looked the blade up and down, trying to spot imperfections, and tossed it from hand to hand, noting the etching and immaculate woodwork; noting that the tang and blade were one, ending in a tip and a pommel; noting the sheath that Hailla had by no means been required to provide, and how the etching along the sword matched the patterning on the rich leather that encased the sheath.

“I love her,” Vielle said, grinning. Carefully, she slid the sword back into its sheath – no matter what Víelle said, Hailla couldn't attach a gender to a _thing_ – and caressed that, too. Then she named it.

“She shines like the sun, like I have my own piece of the sun with me,” she said. “I shall name her _Sònoqí,_ so that everyone knows I have claimed a piece of the sunlight as my own.”

Hailla beamed at her, and without much thought, threw herself into the fighter's arms.

That day she received her mastery, received the title of Itaja. But that night, she bloodied her fingers playing her vanòsso, this time taking the effort to write the song down. She couldn't help but be reminded of her lover.

*** * * * ***

Vielle and Hailla married not even a year later. Plain old Híaiollova Aqevréora, without a skill to her name, was now Itaja Híaiollova Aqevréora Sívéo.

Her own home had been completed some time ago, shortly after the summer months began; her parents had, as a wedding gift, furnished it. Neither family was royalty or noble, but the houses of Aqevréora and Sívéo were by no means considered common or unrespected.

When Vielle had proposed they join with each other as wives, Hailla hadn't realized how little her parents would care for the idea. It wasn't that they disliked Hailla; it was simply that they, despite acknowledging that their daughter was an adult, still felt a little over-protective. Hailla was the first person Vielle had shown any interest in for the majority of her life. Both of Vielle's parents had waited until they were both well over a thousand years old to marry, and just over 500 was simply too young, they felt.

Still, they _did_ care for their daughter and did their part, bestowing upon the young couple a full garden. For a solid day, neither Hailla nor Vielle could walk about the front of the place without tripping over a gardener carefully tending a flower with magic, or installing grass where none had been before.

Elven marriages were by no means _rare_ , but they also weren't an everyday occurrence, either. The _evlé’í_ were hardly numerous, not like humans, and so when two (or more) decided to join it was an Event.

Hailla did not like Events. In fact, she didn't much like large groups of people, having always been on the fringes herself, but the two families put together an Event and it was happening, whether or not Hailla and Vielle wanted it.

House Raia had sent a gift – Hailla did not know anyone who had been married recently and so she had no idea if this was customary or if perhaps Captain Galvan had put the Míyahídéna up to it. Either way, the crystalline flower arrangement was beautiful, and stood at the center of the table of gifts large and small. Hailla would keep it for years to come.

That night she played, for all present, the song she'd composed for Vielle. Her _jíai_ may have received this publicly with a small grunt, but that night she asked her to play it again, in the comfort of their new home, and Hailla acquiesced.

* * * * *

They had been together perhaps a decade when Vielle told her she was going on a mission to save the world.

Of course, Vielle would never actually say this aloud. What she actually said was, “He must be stopped and there is a plan. I'm to escort the Míyahídéna to Mornnovin.”

“It's terribly dangerous, isn't it?” Hailla said. She was working at her forge; she didn't only make swords, these days, and quite often her services were engaged by the noble houses for other things – instrument wire, jewelry, trinkets large and small. She hadn't yet passed her master in ability, but he was still certain she would, in time.

“It is,” Vielle said. “There is every chance that I will not come back to you. I cannot promise that I will.”

Hailla closed her eyes and breathed, deeply. What she was working at could wait; she hadn't even begun to mix the metals yet. Instead, she stood and guided Vielle to their room, to their _bed_. If there was even the slightest chance she'd lose her jíai, she wanted one more pleasant memory to add to the collection.

* * * * *

Loríen sat at her desk. There was so much _work_ to be done, in the aftermath of everything; they'd only just finished tallying up the names of the dead, human and evlé’í alike. Those with elven blood coursing through their veins had received a small gift from herself and Lyn, all that remained of House Raia, and a small note of condolence. It was mostly form work, but both her and Lyn took pains to sign their names on each one personally. Lyn's handwriting was shaky and she signed in rough Rosemarch letters, but she insisted on signing anyway. It was one of the last, “official,” things Lyn had done before leaving the Valley.

Now Loríen simply sat and stared. It wasn't enough; it would _never_ be enough. Not for any of the people who had lost loved ones, not for anyone at all. People had died and they weren't _there_ anymore, and that struck her with such ferocity that she felt the urge to weep.

At the top of the list was a name. Someone she'd known, albeit for a short time – Víelle Sívéo. She'd been young, not even in her sixth century yet. Older than Loríen, certainly, but still willing to give her life. And she had.

Her next of kin was listed as her wife, Itaja Híaiollova Aqevréora Sívéo. While it was not common for women to marry women, or men to marry men, for some reason she was stunned. She'd met this young woman, once before, not even that long ago. She'd just been a student then, not even quite a hundred, but she'd _seen_ her. She'd had olive skin, and great big brown eyes that looked like they were perpetually weeping.

For some reason, a gift and a note of condolence didn't seem _enough_ for Víelle's wife. The woman had done so much for them in such a short time, and given her life to a cause even though she didn't know if it was just or not. Her family deserved better.

It was barely noon, and with the Lord Regent otherwise occupied with some likely trivial matter that didn’t interest her in the slightest, Loríen was able to slip out of the palace and down toward the center of Efrondel, where official records stated that the itaja lived and worked. She was a smith, if Loríen recalled correctly.

She briefly felt guilty, but this was semi-official, was it not? Her guardian may find fault with her later, but for now, she was taking a little time. Vielle’s wife deserved a little time, if nothing else.

The city was large, but the walk still took too little time, and Loríen found herself dreading this encounter. What made her think that this was a good idea? Surely the woman would resent her, for the loss of her wife, for the pain she herself had caused.

Still, Loríen had never been one to back away from a fight, and so she rapped, lightly, at the door.

“Enter,” called a lovely contralto voice. Loríen clenched her jaw and then pushed the door open.

Híaiollova was sitting at her workdesk, polishing a pair of fine daggers. They looked very similar to the ones that Lanas owned, only smaller, made for a more delicate hand.

The smith looked up and then became startled. “Míyahídéna,” she said, standing quickly. “I had – if I'd known –“

Loríen shook her head and held up her hand to forestall the inevitable formalities. “You had no way of knowing because I did not announce myself. Please, the rudeness is mine.”

Híaiollova was not nobility, but she knew the pleasantries associated with a visit from royalty. Soon, Loríen found herself sitting in the parlor, a cup of tea in hand, as that was all the smith happened to have in her kitchen at the moment.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Híaiollova asked, her own tea cooling in front of her. Her face was impassive, although Loríen had been doing enough of it in private lately that she could spot the signs of recent crying. Not, mind, _excessive_ crying. Just enough to let it _out_.

“You must hate me,” she said, her voice breaking the silence like the crack of a whip. She set her tea down in front of her. “If it weren't for me –“

But Híaiollova was shaking her head, a wry smile on her face. “No, Míyahídéna _._ I do not hate you. I wish I could, but I do not. Víelle made it very clear that she volunteered for this duty, that she _wanted_ to help. This was her choice, and she understood the risks, believe me.” She sighed and glanced over to a side table, where a crystalline bouquet stood. “We both did, and yet, she went.”

Loríen had no words. None at all. She picked her tea back up and sipped it, almost immediately wishing she hadn't: it wasn't yet cool and scalded her tongue.

Finally, she spoke again. “You are too kind to me,” she said, her voice only just above a whisper. “Surely by now you have heard the entire story; I nearly killed us all by playing into his hands.”

“I have,” Híaiollova said. “And yet, still Víelle made the choice to stand by you until her end. She believed in you, and thus, I do as well. She was not stupid and would have said no had she thought otherwise. And in the end, even though she gave her life, she was right. You saved us all.” With that, the other woman smiled slightly and took a light sip of her tea.

Loríen felt her throat closing, tightly, and she sipped her tea – much cooler, now – to loosen it up. She absolutely would _not_ start crying in the house of a relative stranger. She didn't even cry in front of Naoise.

“Once again,” she said, once she'd regained her composure, “You are too kind to me. I was a fool and taken for one and because of it, a good woman is dead.”

“Yes, she is,” Híaiollova. “Not, I think, by your hand. We have Katakí Kuromé to blame for that, I believe?” She sipped her tea again, her face a blank mask. For a moment, Loríen wished she were among humans again. They wore their hearts on their sleeves and were much easier to read.

“Your name is deceptively accurate,” Loríen replied. “Grace under pressure, indeed.” While both women knew that wasn't the word-for-word translation of Híaiollova's name, it was the general gist.

“If you have come here seeking absolution from something, I am not the one who needs to give it to you,” Híaiollova replied, ignoring the implied compliment. “You've not done wrong by me. My wife did her job, which was always going to be a dangerous job. I knew this when I married her.”

With that, the other woman stood up and went back to her workstation. The sudden movement startled Loríen, who sat still as the smith picked up the daggers she had been working on and walked back toward her.

“I made a set similar to this for the Captain, when Víelle and I were still courting,” she said, sitting down. “The metal is of my own design; Víellíum. I made it just for her. Her sword was my project for my Mastery.”

And with that, she presented the daggers to Loríen, with little fanfare. “I had meant to send them to the palace, but here you are, in my parlor. It seems I should hand them over now.”

Loríen accepted the gift, a little awkwardly as the knives themselves were unsheathed. “I – I come here to apologize and you grant me a gift?”

Híaiollova grinned then, a true smile. “I grant you a gift because you have saved us all, Míyahídéna. The circumstances of you receiving the gift are your _own_ fault.” She produced a small hide for her to wrap the daggers in, and Loríen pocketed them. “Once again, your name is deceptively accurate,” she said.

“I am not deceptive by nature, no,” Híaiollova replied.

“You are, however, quite kind. Fair, even, in the judicial sense of the word,” Loríen replied, thoughtfully. “If you would permit it, I would bequeath you my fathers' name. I feel you've earned it.”

Híaiollova looked startled. “I could never – I mean, people would –“

“People will not question the will of _me_ , not just yet,” Loríen replied, her voice steely. “I currently hold the favor of our kind, and I can proclaim youHíaiollova Andras Aqevréora Sívéo if I wish it.”

Híaiollova bowed her head.

“My father was a kind man,” Loríen said. “Or so I'm told.” A wry smile appeared on her face. “I only recently learned that his name went both ways, and that his justice could be just as swift as his kindness. But I believe it does me great joy to know that there is some small bit of him in the world, and I would rather you carry his name than any of the suitors who have been making themselves available to my every need.” At that Loríen rolled her eyes, and Híaiollova laughed outright.

“I loved Víelle,” she said. “And yet, I feel I would give her up a thousand times, and live through that pain a thousand ways, rather than be a Raia right now.”

“You are a very smart woman,” Loríen replied, and the smith laughed again.

They bid each other farewell shortly after; Loríen did not know if she would ever meet the woman again. But she did let it be known that she had bequeathed the young smith with a new name, and as time went by, Híaiollova Andras Aqevréora Sívéo would become well-known by that proclamation alone. That people continued to patronize her smithery was based purely on the quality of her work.

Loríen went back to the palace with a spring in her step. For the first time in a long time, she felt real and true hope for her people. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Mornnovin](https://alyssabethancourt.com/2019/04/09/mornnovin-is-live-today/) is my new obsession. It's a novel about autistic elves and subverting fantasy tropes. It's _so_ good! I NEED MORE FANS TO. INTERACT WITH PLS! 
> 
> Híaiollova Aqevréora is not canon, technically, as I made her up. My OFC ROCKS and if you don't agree, nyah!


End file.
